


Land of Hope and Glory

by misanthropyray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, Plot What Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-10
Updated: 2011-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-25 22:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropyray/pseuds/misanthropyray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock broke the rules and not all lessons are easy to learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Land of Hope and Glory

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery pairing details in the end notes.  
> Betaing services offered by thisprettywren, the prettiest wren in all the land.

“Do you understand?”

John’s voice was a bristling growl. Muffled through the thin wall of lino-covered chipboard separating them. His words held an authoritative edge sending a shiver down Sherlock’s spine.

He knew the rules. John had lain them down for him. Could have recited them verbatim. He knew the rules now as he had when he broke them. All it had taken was a quick update to the site, a few well chosen words, a meeting arranged. It was almost too easy; knowing that he stood on the edge of a precipice before gladly tipping over.

Stepping out into the poolside, seeing the look in John’s eyes, he knew the boundaries had been pushed far enough to snap, delicious darkness falling across his gaze like a curtain. He knew. There were always going to be consequences but then John was there, in front of him; involved, far too involved.

When he thought of that night, whispered rules into his ear the first time, its memory brought back not just the words but a recreation of that moment. He felt the tingle of hair being pulled in a strong fist at the back of his skull, flat pressure of unforgiving tarmac against his knees, cold night air biting at his skin. Discipline following disobedience following discipline.

“Tell me.”

John would know he was just delaying the inevitable, of course, but would indulge Sherlock anyway, allow him this small mercy.

Sherlock folded himself down into the cramped surface of the cubicle floor. The tiles aged and cracked; filthy water pooled in the broken valleys that formed a grid across the small space. He closed the lid of the toilet, resting against the seat at an awkward angle, leaning his elbow against the surface. Waiting. Still-damp clothes gathered uncomfortably beneath him, bunching into damp knots of discomfort that simply moved, never disappearing as he shifted.

The waiting was the worst part, weighing down with pendulous pressure that pushed against his chest in a steady beat. A quaking shiver rippled down his spine, the familiar shudder of his body trying to shut down for sleep in the time between the night and the morning. It must have been 4am. Maybe 5am. Maybe later; time had become fragmented somewhere in the evening; _John, the bomb, Moriarty, John, the pool, the fire, John, the police, the statements, John, John, John._ It was only now that the shattered pieces were beginning to heal into some sort of linear order again.

“If you can correctly deduce the person within 30 seconds, you choose how you finish them. Guess within one minute and you can choose not to swallow. Within two minutes and you can decide if the person continues to stay silent or is permitted to make sound. Any longer and this ends immediately. Do I make myself clear?”

John’s voice pounded into his head, the familiar flow of his voice declaring new rules, like a prayer; scripture, decreed and worshipped. The words made Sherlock’s pulse spike, the sound of his own heartbeat a pounding drum overlaying his words.

Sherlock ran the tips of his fingers around the hole in the wall before him, the rough edges bound with black gaffer tape that creased into thick ripples for him to trace over. Its colour stood in stark contrast to the aging white of the thin walls; a target, a bullseye. There was no one on the other side. Not yet, anyway. The trepidation he’d been ignoring slowly gained territory, a sensory war of attrition, breaking down his defences in a relentless _taptaptap_ of creeping doubt.

“Crystal. And I never ‘guess’.”

Sherlock was resting his head against the cubicle wall, eyes closed and trying to will the sparking tension from his limbs, when he heard it. The creak of the adjacent cubicle beginning to open then hesitating for a moment. Sherlock leaned to the side, desperately angling himself lower to try to catch a glimpse of the man as he walked through the door. A pause.

They waited. Sherlock waited.

Sherlock’s fingers dug reflexively into the ceramic of the toilet lid. The unnecessary delay was unbearable as he hovered on the verge of a new scrap of information. The door hinged on the wrong side, obscuring his line of sight until they had entered the cubicle entirely.

“Mouth to the hole,” John’s voice was speaking to him, even and controlled, from somewhere beyond the wall to his left. It was someone else about to enter. Impossible to deduce who yet; no information. Less to go on now the possibility of a quick flash of thigh or the minute slip of trouser material had been stolen from him.

He pushed his face against the black hole in the wall, tipping his head back as the smooth plastic of the lino pressed against his nose. It was cold against the burning heat of his skin, heart pounding, blood pushing towards the surface. The push of the opening seemed to ease his lips apart and Sherlock didn’t resist, opening his mouth in silent readiness before feeling oddly exposed and closing it again. He was ready now, ready as he would ever be, but they were holding back, keeping him in torturous limbo.

Silence.

Sherlock shifted, the noise too loud in the indeterminable silence before it was shattered by the onwards creak of the door opening. His heart caught in anticipation, tinged with the distant edge of muted pleasure. A cold breeze followed, brushing across his lips. Dry. He licked them. Better. The clatter of footsteps on tile. The returning squeal of aged hinges. The door closing behind the mystery occupant.

His shoes sounded sharp against the tile flooring; most likely a hard-sole work shoe. Standard issue? Uniform. Useful.  
The weight of the footfall would imply an approximate body weight of between 11 and 14 stone. Useful.  
The sound of a zip: metal. No belt. Office trousers. Uniform. Already established; not useful.

Apprehension. Cause of? Inconclusive; pending data.

The first touch of skin on skin; the whole impossible situation brought into stark reality. It was the briefest fleck of sensation, soft folds brushing against his lower lip before disappearing again.

The sensation returned; tentative but with a gentle pressure that pushed against his lips.  
Sherlock parted them slowly, keeping his movements predictable, not wanting to cause for another withdrawal, wasting precious seconds. He needed more; more sensation, more information, more.

Waiting, mouth open, nothing changed. The slow brushing of skin against his lips continued with agonising consistency, neither pushing forward nor pulling back. He tried to lean into the touch, feeling the hard edges of the hole pressing back into his skin and reaching out with his tongue. There was the slightest hint of withdrawal, a hesitant slide away from him which Sherlock couldn’t allow. Seconds passed: unproductive. A relentless march that gave him nothing to work with.

He jutted his tongue out of his mouth, fast and swooping. Cupped glans almost out of his reach, drawing it between his lips and applying firm suction. A snag in his breath; response, a reaction. Finally. A slow push forward.

Data.

The penis was still predominantly flaccid. Easily enveloped to the base; ill prepared? (There must have been some discussion of the course of events prior to this; plenty of time for preparation. Doubtful.) Sexuality crisis? (No visual contact with the source of stimulation: easier to convince an otherwise heterosexual male, or for them to convince themselves. Disengendered simulation. Even so, there would logically be a cross over between the knowledge of the act and the overriding physical sensation of it. Most likely.)

Sherlock undulated his tongue under the slowly stiffening penis. Suck, lick, slide, repeat. Hardening. Trying to gain any kind of information from the direct physicality of it but there was nothing. No scars, no physical abnormalities of any kind. Foreskin: standard. Slight upwards curvature: interesting, but unremarkable.

He tried to elicit some sound from the man, lips pressed flush against the wall, feeling the uncompromising pressure on his soft palette before pulling off again. Fully erect now; convinced, sufficiently detacted. He lapped at the flushed dome of the head, a sharp jolt of arousal surging through his body. Running his tongue over the delicate slit, being rewarded with a laboured huff of breath from the other cubicle. Again; long pulls as his tongue rippled across the underside, alternated with a sharp suck to the head, pushing his lips down into a soft ring of pressure.

For a moment, he was lost. Adrift in the warmth and weight and motion of it all. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment as the seconds ticking, by failed to matter.

Shoes shifted, knocking against the other side of the wall. Another sharp exhale. Sherlock pushed down again, nose to the black tape covering the edges of the hole. Something. A scent. A toiletry of some variety. Pubic hair; holds smell far longer than skin. He couldn’t breathe properly as got closer to the scent, the penis long enough to push into his throat as he drew close to it. His eyes watered slightly in reactionary protest.

He couldn’t stop, couldn’t pull away; John would know. He pressed his nose against the hole. The thought of him, his body leaning on the other side of the cubicle door, listening to the wet sounds of Sherlock pleasuring... Who? A friend? An enemy? A perfect stranger? It sent a warm throb to his groin that he didn’t have the time to acknowledge.

Forward again, stopping midway down the shaft, a compromise between breathing capacity and proximity to the faint scent that taunted him.

Sherlock swallowed. A hand slammed up against the separating partition. Along with the thud, there was a soft click. Metal. Wedding band. Correct presumption of heterosexuality then.

Another shift and the smell wafts again; shower gel. Radox. Familiar.

And who does Sherlock know that’s straight, married, between 11 and 14 stone, carries the scent of Radox and has reason to be in the general vicinity of a swimming pool toilet at 4am?

Lestrade.

He pulled back, said the word louder than he intended and it felt deafening in the enclosed space.

“113 seconds.” John’s voice was close, inches behind the door. If it weren’t for the flimsy barrier, Sherlock would be able to reach out and touch him from where he sat, pull him close, feel the familiar touch of his skin and earn his forgiveness that way. But the barrier stood. John remained distant; a prize to be fought for and won.

“Now you may choose to continue with sound or not.”

“With.”

Lestrade let out a relieved sigh followed by the soft thud of his forehead coming to rest against the separating wall.

He wasn’t done yet. Sherlock wrapped a fist around the base of Lestrade’s cock, stroking upwards in a wet slide, once, twice, three times before moving his mouth back into place. He licked away a bead of glistening fluid and was rewarded by a rumbling groan that vibrated the thin walls. Sherlock sank down again, breaching his throat before pulling back.

Lestrade’s groan dragged out, becoming a series of low growls and jagged moans, filling the space. A constant stream of sound. It would be quicker now. Now the noise was there. A security blanket to cover any throaty sound that might identify Sherlock as masculine. Lestrade would delve into his own fantasy world of anonymous stimulation.

On the other side of the wall, Lestrade began to move, butting his hips against the thin wall before stilling and emitting a broken cry. The hot liquid that filled Sherlock’s mouth in stuttering spurts was bitter and strong, too much coffee, poor diet. Half of it slid down his throat of its own volition, the rest disappearing in two laboured swallows, the ghost of the bitter saltiness remaining in his mouth. He ignored the last droplet that hung on the end of Lestrade’s softening cock as it withdrew.

A scrape. A thud. Lestrade’s shoes slid away from the thin partition, loud on the tiles as he turned. The door to the other cubicle fell closed behind him. Footsteps continued, fading into the distance, joined by another (John? _John_.) before exiting an unseen door in the distance.

Suddenly Sherlock felt utterly alone. He rested his weight against the hard ceramic of the toilet bowl. Patches of creeping wetness blossomed where his trousers came into contact with the dank flooring.

He didn’t want to be there.

He could leave.

The thought flitted across his mind, dangerous and alluring. He imagined standing, dusting himself off, leaving the cramped cubicle. He imagined picking his way across the pile of rubble that stood between him and the outside world. He imagined walking through the forest of blue flashing lights on the other side, emerging into the night, the normalcy of hailing a cab.

Then what?

Life would go back to how it was before, before John, before he had a reason. Except now he knew how alone he really was.

It all had a purpose, Sherlock knew. He wanted John and John wanted this. The lesson to be learned.

And it was all for his benefit in the end. Every rule, every discomfort; it was all for him. He could see that. Whenever he disobeyed, putting his own life in danger, it was there in John's eyes. He could see the hurt that he was causing him and that needed to change. John was the one he didn't want to hurt, the only one. The way to achieve that was by keeping himself safe.

Sherlock's ears pricked. A sound; shattered silence. The door. Someone new. Two people; John, and another. Someone mirroring John's gait in his own footsteps. Clever.

He listened to the crunch of their footfall working through the planes of broken tile and crumbled concrete that lay outside the cubicle. John and the imitator.

"Mouth to the hole."

His voice was closer than before, an inch or two away from the door, staying with him, guiding him. His cock throbbed at the thought.

Sherlock twisted his body up from his folded crouch, moving back to press his face into the black-ringed hole. The door opened, pushed closed again, painfully slowly with a quiet click. Sherlock closed his eyes as he felt the anticipation jittering through his system in the last moments of quiet. Exhale. Relax. Try to relax.

The smooth touch of skin pressed against his lips. He opened them reflexively. Whoever it was, he was already hard at this first contact. Active preparation? Simply the result of a waiting period? Too soon to tell.

A slight push pressed his lips open further, then slow withdrawal. Not fear. No nervousness to the motion. A far more regulatory feel to it. The head of the penis was hot and hard in his mouth, thick and distracting. A few more seconds of push and withdraw had him caught up in the steady rhythm of it all until he couldn’t ignore the ache in his own groin.

He rubbed the heel of his hand over the rising bulge in his trousers. Damp material pressing almost painfully against him. Distraction; enough to stave off the sensation for a few moments longer whilst he got back to the task at hand. He pulled back from the hole, licking up the length which protruded. Distinctly larger than average. Thick. Circumcised. Sherlock traced the veins with his tongue, wrapping his lips around the tip when he reached it and sucking in one hard tug, trying to force a sound from the man. Nothing.

The quiet, the pace, the door, the mirrored footsteps; all hallmarks of control.

There was only one person in his life who demonstrated that kind of pedantic level of self-control; Mycroft. But it couldn't be. They hadn't been circumcised as children. And John wouldn’t. Or would he? Not entirely out of the question; John was nothing if not challenging, and Sherlock hadn’t exactly said no when John had broached the idea several weeks earlier. And if asked, Mycroft would almost certainly participate willingly in any act of disciplining Sherlock; shunning social taboos with a nonchalant flick of the wrist. And if not Mycroft, who? Far more of a mystery.

The full length of the shaft was pushed through the hole now, presented in silent encouragement. Sherlock acquiesced. Curling his tongue around the tip, he pushed gently, wrapping the head in a rippling pressure before taking it back in to his mouth. This time, a new approach; no more teasing. He sank down, feeling its thick slide across the roof of his mouth, before butting against his soft palette. Sherlock continued, closing his eyes, straightening his throat as the head began to breach him.

Still no sound, only soft breathing from the other side. It was him, it had to be.

"Mycroft?" His uncertainty was painfully obvious, echoing back to him in a quiet taunt.

A muted laugh from behind the wall.

"When on Earth did you get yourself circumcised, Mycroft? And why?"

Sherlock waited for an answer, rocking back on his heels. Oh. Silence. The time, of course.

Imperious ass.

"Fifty nine seconds. Spit or swallow?"

"Spit. And he stays silent."

Of course it was Mycroft, of course he would have himself circumcised in adulthood. Should have guessed sooner.

Now that he was certain, Sherlock found himself hesitating. Still: this was John’s game, and it had rules. Sherlock had to finish him or admit defeat. He focused; this was what John wanted.

It would be easier if he didn’t have to think beyond the physicality of the act itself. Faced with the impersonal chipboard he could almost pretend it was John’s, he thought, curling his lips around the penis that still stood proudly, invading his space. Just flesh; it could be anyone’s. The situation felt beyond his control. He had already committed to the lesson and it seemed no different to stimulating Lestrade just moments before. Different in size and weight, the specifics of shape, but on some level the same; an exchange of power, an experiment in anonymity and reveal. If he wasn't repulsed before, there seemed no reason to stop now.

And he felt forced to admit that it was rather attractive, as penises go. Smooth with gentle veining along its underside. A soft pink colour, blurring into a deeper flush nearer the head. Close to eight inches long, difficult to reach his fingers around when he tried, fingertips brushing each other but barely making a connection. He drew the circle of his fingers up across the velvety skin, bringing them up to meet his mouth and then withdrawing both before starting with a reverse motion back to the base. Mycroft stayed silent on the other side of the wall, the only sound that of his nails scraping the dividing wall in a slow rhythm.

Sherlock caught the distant scent of cologne, breathing deeply to investigate further. Distinctive. Penhaligan's English Fern. Would have bought it from the Royal Warrant Holders Fair a few weeks ago. Why hadn't he smelled it sooner? That would have cast off any ridiculous doubt that caused him to lose precious seconds. Stupid.

Still, he was almost glad he hadn’t noticed. He pushed the awareness of the scent from his mind.

Sherlock carried on through the silence, almost hoping for some sort of aural feedback that would spur him on. Slipped one hand down to his lap, fighting the button before managing to release the fastening and free his own erection with a groan.

Renewed movement, the heavy flesh sliding back and forth between his lips. Sherlock stilled, letting him-- no, letting his mouth be fucked, the pace slow and measured. Typical. With one hand, Sherlock wiped away the saliva that was running down his chin in a thick stream, streaking it across his palm. He wrapped a tight fist around the head of his own straining cock, pushing up into the pressure. There might have been rules about this. John might have plans for him later but, in that moment, he didn't care. (A small voice in the back of his mind told him that not caring in the moment was what had gotten him there in the first place.)

Sherlock broke the metronomic motion without warning, following the next withdrawal, pausing, letting the forwards thrust push into his throat again. The shift in sensation left a second’s gap, filled with laboured breaths from both sides of the wall. Finally. A few more slow thrusts, then a space.

No noise, no indication that he was close, just the abrupt pulse of warm fluid coating the back of his tongue. He pulled back in surprise, getting his cheek coated with a pearlescent stripe before dutifully wrapping his lips around the tip to catch the last few spurts. He collected the fluid onto his tongue as the penis withdrew. The taste was much lighter and fresher, not entirely unpleasant. As soon as the penis was withdrawn he could allow himself to remember that it was Mycroft’s; he almost laughed as he imagined thanking Anthea for managing to keep him on the diet for so long. He lifted the toilet lid and spat the contents of his mouth into the water. A glistening string connected his lower lip to the bowl. Pressing his mouth closed, he broke the connection, watching it float away in a milky island.

"You could have warned me," Sherlock said as he leaned back against the opposing wall.

"Not my rules." Sherlock could hear the smirk. Bastard.

On the other side of the wall he could hear Mycroft wiping himself off, tucking and straightening his clothing. The door fell closed again.

Alone.

The grinding shift of a shoe on tile.

Not alone. John. Still there. By his side; always by his side.

The next is shorter. Hard flesh reaching over the edge of the hole; upward curve to compensate for the height difference. No discernible scent. Most likely showered the previous evening; early riser then. Why? A job requirement? Certainly not a proclivity towards the gym; the heavy thud and diminutive height make for a BMI well above national average. A sedentary job then.

Uncircumcised. Unhelpful.

A passive lack of motion; simply holding his position. Possibly an indication of nerves, a lack of new situations regularly occurring in day to day life? Too vague. Need more data. Need more time.

Sherlock slipped into a steady rhythm, pumping a beat with synchronised mouth and fist. Closed eyes, sensation, heat, the thrum of his own cock reminding him of its presence. Lost in the motion, he let his mind wander. Thought of John, behind the door, listening to him suck the cock of another man. Listening to Sherlock following his instruction. Playing his game. He pictured him with his ear pressed against the thin door, listening to the bubbling slurp as his spit gathered at the corners of his mouth and fell, streaking down his (colour) shirt in wet fingers of moisture. John would be listening and knowing that it was because of him. His lessons, his love for Sherlock, to help him, to keep him safe, keep them safe.

"Ninety seconds." The voice was sudden and jarring, snapping him out of mechanical stimulation; re-engaging his mind.

Think.

Who was this?

Who would John invite to be a part of this, whatever this was?

He called up images of everyone they had encountered in the last three months since their initial meeting. Dimmock? No, his frame was lighter than this man’s, his shoes wrong. Philip, the current lab assistant. No, he was taller. His wife was also pregnant, the baby was due at least a week ago. There's no way he would be in the vicinity of a crumbling swimming pool in the small hours of the morning. Anderson? He would have reason to be there, would stand at around the same height at the man whose hard length dragged against his lips. He might were similar footwear, hard soles sharp against the tile. But would John allow that. He surely had rules of his own, guidelines, things he would allow and lines that shouldn't be cross. No, not Anderson.

He started at the beginning.

Yes, it would make sense, and there was no time to run through any more possibilities. Speak first, consequences later.

He pulled away, a string of spittle connecting him with the proud penis in front of him.

"Stamford."

"Two minutes and thirty seven seconds."

Sherlock silently cursed himself. Anything over two minutes was tantamount to a defeat. It was the night, the explosion, the fading tendrils of adrenaline clouding his mind. Had he let John down again, the latest in a succession of disappointments. Would it end? A punishment instead?

Stamford finished with a quiet groan. No choice but to swallow, his throat resistant, clamping down around the bitter taste of failure.

Silence. Alone again, held in limbo. If it was the end, John would come for him. There was no one. A test maybe? A test his foggy mind didn’t fully understand. He would stay there; show John that he could. Icy cold permeated through the thin fabric of his shirt.

From nothing to something. Footsteps. Three people.

Struggle. Different; this wasn’t over yet. Harsh scrape of broken tile; resistance.

The door closed with a slam. Sherlock placed his mouth at the hole reflexively. Anticipation raced through his veins; there was more. Time to make up it up to John, prove himself. He could do this. A quick swipe across his lips. Too quick. He waiting. Nothing. His tongue investigated the space ahead blindly. Nothing. Swipe. Nothing again.

He waited. Nothing.

Time was ticking on and he was getting nothing. He counted. _twenty three... twenty four... twenty five..._

It was on purpose. Of course it was! The man wasn't waiting because he was nervous, flaccid, intimidated. He was holding back to deprive Sherlock of the time to guess. A plan, a subtle twist on the dynamic which left him helpless and information starved. Mouth pressed against the hole, still open as his mind raced. Without warning, his mouth was brutally penetrated, hitting forcefully against the back of his throat before there was time to retreat. Eyes watered. Bile burned the back of his tongue. The retreat was as swift as the entry, leaving him coughing, hands braced against the wall.

A muffled laugh.

 _Obvious. So obvious. But impossible._

The flames, the smoke; he'd run, they'd seen him. No, it couldn’t be.

John had pulled him into the pool, dragged him under churning water, away from the flames above. Unshakable arm curled around his waist; chlorine-saturated water flooding his eyes and nose. But he'd run. Sherlock was sure of it. He'd disappeared behind a spray of stray sniper fire; the slamming of a fire door, a sounding alarm, the thunderous crack of spraying plaster and ceramic.

He tried to speak; voice as broken and fragile as his body. Sherlock jerked away; sucking in cold lungfuls of night air, rasping, cooling his heated throat. The who: obvious. The how? Utterly unfathomable. _John. Brilliant and impossible John._

Sherlock had arranged the meeting, gone alone, knowingly leaving John behind to face his battle alone. He hadn’t trusted him and it had fallen apart. The moment John emerged, Sherlock felt the delicate threads of control slipping through his fingers. John had already more than proven himself, but still he had left him behind. Too many years of flying solo. Not ready yet. He should have been there; by his side, an equal.

His heated palms felt cool against the off-white lino of the wall; grounding him. He tried to speak again, forming word through the ache in his jaw and the burn in his throat. Trying to voice the first syllable launched him into a coughing fit, body curling sharply against the wall, head bowed. The tight spasms of his throat scratched the bile worn tissue against itself, soothing the heated itch that clawed at his oesophagus. Sherlock's chest heaved with the force of the last cough, punctuating into silence.

Gone. There was no one on the other side. Distraction. Stupid.

The opposing door swung closed with a bang. Audible struggling. Impossible to work out the exact movement exchanged, especially not with the ratcheting tension starting in his stomach and radiating outwards to encompass him.

The door flew open, his door.

 _Moriarty._

There. Cuffed. Gagged, yet still smirking behind the taut fabric bunched between his teeth. Eyes wild and manic. John held him, a hand wrapped around his throat, another clamped tightly onto his upper arm. Legs parted to form a solid base. Solid. Strong. His.

"Look," John stared down at him, his eyes taking in Sherlock’s body folded low to the floor, “Do you see now, Sherlock?”

John punctuated himself by jerking Moriarty backwards, upsetting his balance, curled fingers digging deeper into his throat. Flushed angry skin blossomed between splayed digits. Before, by the pool, he’d held him, told Sherlock to run. Then he hadn’t; this time he couldn’t.

Sherlock had tried to catch Moriarty. John had succeeded.

“This stops. Now.”

John stood over him, towering in the doorway. The cubicle suddenly felt impossibly small, the walls looming in. In the brief stretch of silence, Moriarty made his move, twisting in John's grasp in an abrupt bid for freedom. The hand slipped from his neck as Moriarty's head whipped sideways and down, using John's torso for leverage to throw his body forwards. His plan relied on a slower reaction time; foolish. John hadn't missed a beat, barely even looked surprised at the burst of activity. Still gripping one arm, he pulled upwards, yanking Moriarty against him. An arm locked into position around the back of his neck, anchoring him. Muffled noises of frustration escaped him as he twitched in John's grip.

Secure again. John looked back at Sherlock. _'I can take care of myself'_ written clearly across his features. He could. That is how it was now, how it would be. Would always be.

Lestrade appeared into the doorway at the far side of the room, walking towards them and whispering something into John's hear. He nodded.

"Let me," Lestrade said as he took hold of the metal chain binding Moriarty's hands together behind his back. John released his grip, allowed him to slip out of his arms and leave with Lestrade. To be surrounded by blue flashing lights, pushed into a police car, taken to the station, removed from their lives.

Over now.

And they were alone.

His hands were still curved with tension, still carrying the shadow of Moriarty's neck. When John took a step towards him, Sherlock felt a brief flicker of fear. With proximity, his face softened, diffusing the apprehension that had begun to coil in his gut. A hand offered and taken. He stood, John's skin burning under his. When had it become so cold? Or had he simply stopped noticing?

Sherlock stood on unsteady legs, wavering slightly until a warm arm wrapped around his waist; sturdy and solid. John walked him backwards a step until ceramic pushed against the backs of his knees. He dropped down on to the toilet lid unconsciously, John above him again. A knee worked its way between his thighs, a hand behind his neck; pinned.

John touched his forehead against Sherlock's, his body hunched over him, possessive and claiming. Tilting his head back, Sherlock pressed their lips together. Light. Chaste. John slid the hand on his neck up into his hair, angling his face and touching his lips against Sherlock’s skin, feather light kisses that covered his face, his neck. A perfect reconciliation, resolution of the imbalance that had been holding them apart. He felt surrounded by warmth, by John. Perfect.

It wasn’t until the warmth of John’s touch started to penetrate his skin that Sherlock realised how cold he’d been, just how insurmountable the distance between them had seemed.

Sherlock suddenly couldn’t stand the thought of any barriers between them. He clutched desperately at John’s clothes. Closer, not close enough. He’d give anything, anything to be home now, completely surrounded by John, far away from the crumbling walls of a crime scene.

“Do you understand now?” John’s lips left his skin, lifting only fractionally, hot breath on his skin keeping them connected, “you can’t keep doing this, running off on your own.” He resumed his kisses, using them to punctuate his words, trailing his lips down Sherlock’s neck in a soft drag, “there is no ‘you’ and ‘I’ anymore, just ‘we’.”

Sherlock melted into John, moving with him, his interest pushing against the knee that still held his thighs apart. Their eyes met as John opened his fly, taking him in hand. He gathered a bubbling well of spit between his lips and rolling his head forwards to let it fall onto the head of Sherlock’s cock. A firm fist spread the wetness.

John whispered endlessly into his ear as he stroked, “You’re mine now, I need you just like you need me.” His head fell to Sherlock’s shoulder, face nuzzling at his neck. “It’s just us, no one else. If there’s danger, we’re in it together.” The hand in his hair tugging gently, easing his head back further; Sherlock relaxed into it, letting John take its weight. “Together until the end. Because I’d be nothing without you--”

Sherlock didn’t hear the rest of it, his vision whiting out as he coated John’s hand with a strangled cry. But then, he didn’t need to; John had just spent an entire night making sure Sherlock understood where he’d be without him.

If there’s danger, they’re in it together. And there would be, but another day. Now, they just needed to go home.

**Author's Note:**

> Pairings: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Mycroft, Sherlock/Stamford, Sherlock/Lestrade, Sherlock/Moriarty.


End file.
